"Crispin!" she called. "You can go home now if you want. I'll close up." A young man with the unmistakeable air of boredom peeked round the corner of Hermione's office.
"Righto, Ms. Granger. See you tomorrow." And with a small salute of farewell, Crispin strode past her open door and out into the foyer. Hermione flinched as the door slammed, its sound reverberating through her cramped office. It was the sound of loneliness, the sound of an empty life. It was the sound of a failing Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare. She looked down at the pile of pamphlets she had been writing; even they - a dreary yellow and black design - were dull, hopeless, and lacking in life.
How has my life come to this, she thought, scratching her dim and itchy eyes.
S.P.E.W was a disaster. Both her main financial sponsors had recently pulled out in light of a particularly nasty - and rather publicised - scandal involving a rogue house-elf, a rolling pin, and a Muggle now recuperating in St. Mungo's. Both Whizz Hard Books and Gladrags Wizardwear had 'reviewed' their support of the Society after the unfortunate incident and now Hermione found herself not only self-employed but self-funded as well without two sickles to rub together herself. Poor Crispin would have to go, she thought miserably. Not that he would mind. He was the grandson of old Reg Perkins, from the Misuse of Muggle Artefact's office, and worked for Hermione as a favour to Arthur Weasley.
Oh Arthur! Hermione thought. You and your family have been so kind, too kind. She and Ron had not even announced their engagement before it happened. Before Pius Thicknesse - recovered from the sea-urchin hex Percy had inflicted on him - had turned up at the Burrow one month after the final battle and turned his wand on Ron. She bit her lip, hard enough for a trickle of blood to slowly seep from the broken skin but not hard enough to dull the pain ripping through her chest as her thoughts wandered to the man she had loved and lost.
Snow flakes drifted past the icy window and Hermione turned to gaze out at Diagon Alley. Harried witches clutching onto the hands of young children bustled past in a frenzy, trying to get the last of their Christmas shopping finished before the week was out. Christmas. Hermione would not be joining her parents this year. Australia was too far away, and with her troubles at S.P.E.W she could not fathom leaving the country. This year, like many others before, Hermione would spend the holiday season with the Weasley's - and Harry of course. It was hard going back to the Burrow but not as hard as it was to stay away. It was there that Hermione felt closest to Ron; she could really feel his presence smiling down upon her, Harry, and his family.
Hermione shook her head and looked back down at the pile of pamphlets. Enough is enough, she thought as she began to pack up her things. Time to go home.
"Ouch!" she exclaimed and held the paper cut up to the light. Grabbing her wand, she flicked the tip over the wound wordlessly and watched as the skin resealed itself. Waving her wand over the droplet of blood, which had permeated the top pamphlet, she turned to leave. She walked through the foyer of her office premises and gazed around as she went. This would have to go, she thought, as well. No point wasting all my galleons on this lease when I hardly need use it. If I let Crispin go then it will just be me running S.P.E.W and I guess I could try do it all from my flat...
She shuddered at the thought of her tiny flat cramped even further with all her work papers and filing cabinets. But she had no choice. If S.P.E.W was to survive then there was no other way.
The blast of cold air sent shivers down her spine as she stepped out onto the cobbled alleyway. She heard the unmistakeable click of the lock as she waved her wand before the door.
"Hermione!" a voice called from behind her. Recognising the once jovial voice she turned to face George Weasley. His face was drawn and unhealthily pale, even for someone with his colouring. She smiled and walked over to where he was closing up Weasley Wizard's Wheezes.
"Off home already?" she asked surprised. "Five o'clock the week before Christmas!" Her attempt at light-hearted teasing did not seem to rouse George from his quiet sadness. Four years may have passed since the war ended, but life had refused to continue for George. He had lost two brothers that year, and those losses had affected not only him but the entire Weasley family and their friends.
"I just wondered what time you were coming round on Monday. Mum wanted me to ask you?" The corner of his lips turned upwards into an awkward smile as he gazed at the cold, hard ground below. Hermione reached out to touch his arm, but he stepped out of her reach and looked away.
"Oh, well, ten alright?" her eyes turned down toward the cobbled street in embarrassment. "I think Harry is going to Apparate to my flat first and then we'll come round together." George nodded, the awkward smile still plastered across his face. Hermione wondered if she should say something else.
"Well, bye then," she said with a wave, turning toward the Leaky Cauldron. A drink first, she thought, to fire up from the cold before heading home.
"Night, Hermione." George reached forward with a shaky hand and tentatively grasped her small one. She felt his dry, calloused fingers touch her freezing skin and bit her lip. "Sorry, I didn't mean to... you know, before..."
"Don't mention it," she replied quickly. "I'm going to grab a drink. Want to join me?"
George looked at her in surprise. "Sure. Why not?" And together they walked off in the direction of a dirty brick wall along with several other wizards and witches in a sad yet oddly comfortable silence.
George jumped to his feet as the clock behind him chirped five o'clock. The cuckoo returned to its enchanted cage, and he rubbed his elbows looking around the shop bleary-eyed and sore. He had been slumped against the counter for three hours straight. Not one customer had entered the joke shop for three hours, and there was less than one week left until Christmas. George ran a hand through his frazzled red-hair. The store buzzed feebly around him. Gone were the days of busy custom; school-children running hither and thither buying products left, right, and centre. Gone were the singed eye-brows and temporary nose-bleeds. Gone was his twin brother, Fred. And Ron.
Fred had always been the one to look after the books. Whilst George was a dab hand at mass production of their many ideas and designs, Fred took care of all their financial issues. But he had been gone for four whole years now and George was struggling to keep his head up and his company afloat.
"Verity!" George called into the back room.
"Yeah?"
"I'm gonna close up soon, you can go home if you want."
A young witch in lurid pink robes peeked round the corner into the main part of the store.
"You sure? It's only five!"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Quiet day, innit?"
Verity nodded slowly and looked at George with an unusual expression. Is it pity? George could not tell.
"Okay, well see you tomorrow George." She patted him softly on the back as she passed him. "I'm sure things will pick up soon."
George waited for the front door to click shut before he let out an exasperated snort. Christmas was this Monday and sales were way down. He couldn't see it picking up anytime soon. No, Verity would have to go. George would be sad to see her leave. She had been there from the beginning, his first ever employee. Whilst the others had come and gone, Verity had been there through thick and thin. She was there to help George pick up the pieces when he returned for the first time after Fred's death. She had stayed even when the first signs of trouble began to blossom on some distant horizon. A worry to be brushed off, not thought of. Verity was all George had linking him to the Weasley Wizard Wheezes of old. But she would have to go. After Christmas, George thought.
How had his life come to this? He walked through life numb, unfeeling, haunted by the shadow of what he once was. What his brother once was. And Ron, there was always Ron. He never told his brothers how much they had meant to him. How much he loved them. It just wasn't something you went around saying every day, it didn't go with the macho personality he and Fred had once perpetuated. But that was all gone now.
George reached down under the counter and pulled out the sales tally. He stared down at the numbers, they were Troll to him. If only Fred had explained this all to him before... before. If only they had shared the financial workload, if only he had taken interest in that side of the business. If only, if only. If only Fred hadn't gone and got himself killed! George would give up his other ear to see Fred once more. Sighing, George flipped the book closed and returned it to the shelf below. It could wait until tomorrow; he would have plenty time amongst the empty aisles and dusty display cabinets.
Pulling on a well-worn cloak, George took a deep breath before facing the relentless winter outside. Flakes of snow dusted his shoulders and danced about his head. He gasped as a lone flake lodged itself into the crevice of his lost ear. Pointing his wand at the gaping hole on the side of his head, he removed the impostor and turned to lock the door. Click.
A wild mane of bushy brown hair caught his eye. Hermione had attempted to tame the feral curls with a plait but the effort was pointless. George smiled briefly. He watched as she struggled to lock the front door of her S.P.E.W office with shaking hands. Is it the cold or something else? he wondered as he watched her. Realisation hit George that he and his family were not the only ones to have lost Ron and Fred. Ron and Hermione had been best of friends for years and then briefly lovers. Her Christmas would be just as painful as his. Christmas... Hermione... Monday... A vague memory of Molly Weasley brandishing a rolling pin and requesting his attention brought George back to the freezing wintry street. I almost forgot!
"Hermione!"